Survival
by Rosethorn
Summary: The things we do to survive. Maggie Lefay and Lord Raith. !WARNING! This fic contains explicit rape. Please do not read if this disturbs you. !WARNING! Also spoilers for Blood Rites.


"I am most disappointed in you." His voice is silk-wrapped steel, purring into her ear.

She shivers, lifts her chin, stares straight ahead with unseeing eyes. "I want to see my son."  
He laughs, lifts a strand or two of her hair and brushes it across her collarbone. "You're going to tell me now that you left me just to see a child? I won't believe it, my dear."

She cannot, dares not, respond, except to repeat, "I want to see my son."

"_My_ son—" his voice cracks like a whip— "never forget it."

A shiver goes through her again and she drops her eyelids, says nothing.

The steel sheathes itself—his voice softens. "But come, little dear. Why run away from me? I adore you. I am your _slave._"

The irony. She can't keep a soft "ha" from escaping, though she keeps it nearly voiceless.

The smile stiffens on his face, but he does not react. "You have everything you could want here. Why would you ever want to leave?"

Why, indeed. She looks down, to her bare feet on the marble. Her toenails are painted a livid crimson; it's the only splash of color in this frozen white room. Even she is colored in shades of black and white, though less dramatically than he.

It's cold, this room. _She's_ cold.

He's grown tired of waiting for an answer.

"Look at yourself," he sneers, and swings her around, turns her away from the dais-_cum_-throne he likes to lounge in and towards one of the mirrors that line the wall. The others know his preferences; they'd put her in a robe before they brought her here, and now he strips it off in one sharp movement, leaves her naked. "Who else would want you, my dear little fool?"

Rather clumsy of him, she thinks, to insult her so openly. He must be very angry indeed. Maybe if she… but no, better just to look, pacify him as best she can. She lifts her face, looks into her own dark eyes for a moment before ducking away to the rest. Tall, thin, leggy—pale skin too often bruised and lacerated. Her hair, ink-dark and liquid, spilling down her shoulders. Hollows beneath her eyes and ribs, scars up and down her arms and legs.

"Well?" he inquires, equilibrium back. "You see…?"

Pain. She sees pain.

"I am rather ugly," she answers, obediently, mechanically.

His face over her shoulder shows a distant, reflected satisfaction. "There, my dear, was that so hard?" His hands on her shoulders slide down, one to her breast, one to her abdomen, hovering over the dark thatch of curls there. Now it begins… "Though I do think you are a little hard on yourself," he continues. "You have some attractions, after all."

Her breast feels heavy and sore in his hand—she shifts to relieve it, and is rewarded with a grip that leaves her gasping. He smiles again, kisses the slope of her neck.

"I want to see my son," she says, and is horrified—her voice is clogged with tears.

"In good time." His voice is rich with satisfaction. Why not? He's won again.

His hand dives into the curls, probes searchingly; she cannot look, she will cry if she does. She closes her eyes and calls up every inch of self-control and dignity she has left. She's learned ways of surviving, of making it easier—there can be no triumph here, not for her, she's learned that too. Only survival.

One—lock herself away. He pinches her nipple, bites her shoulder, and she goes deep inside until the intermittent pain is nothing more than distant pinpricks. This won't work for long. It'll melt away as soon as he starts to feed. But for now, her heart is safe here. Everything of her that can feel, she locks away in the pit of her stomach, in her womb, in Thomas's image still safe and small inside her. But she will not think of Thomas now, not here. He is apart from this, so entirely separate—he must be. She's worked hard to keep him that way.

The other stabs a finger deep inside her, a pain she can't ignore. She inhales sharply, startled out of herself, and freezes when he laughs darkly.

"Welcome back," he murmurs in her ear, a parody of an endearment; places a hand at the nape of her neck and pinches her viciously. "Now down, bitch." He bears down.

Her knees buckle and hit the marble with an audible crack—she bites back a whimper and goes to all fours. Bruises this time. He might even break a bone. She's not sure, because she's never made him this angry.

Well. He wants her to hurt, so he will see her hurt. That means she cannot fantasize herself away—option two—or talk herself into enjoying it for the moment—option three. That leaves...

He pushes in. She's dry as a bone and it _hurts,_ butshe doesn't bother to hold back the cry, doesn't bother to hide the grimace. He'll do something worse if she does. She has to do something, though, or she will go mad.

So she drops her head, lets her hair fall forward to hide her face, and concentrates on hating him with every fragmented piece of her soul. Every thrust, every pinch of pain, every scrape of his nails along her sides makes her hate him more: this man—no, this _thing_ who would take a young girl's idealism and twist it to his own bloody means, take her sensuality and pervert it for his own pleasure. This creature who treats his children worse than chattel—she will not leave Thomas here.

She'll kill him, if he lays one hand on her son. She'll kill him.

He pulls out suddenly, flips her over like a man flips closed the cover of a book that did not please, and leans forward, sinks his teeth into her neck. She wonders what the hell he's doing before the cold draining sinks in, and shivers of pleasure begin to run up and down her body, drowning out her aching back, her protesting knees, the soreness and bruises he's left in his wake. Ah—taking an idea from the Red Court. And he has drawn blood; she feels it trickling down her neck, warm against the ice spreading along her nerves. It's the only thing she can feel, besides the obscene pleasure.

He's pushing inside her again; she can barely feel it. He's running his hands up and down her body, over the wounds, over her breasts and belly and sides, a faint smirk on his face. God damn him. God _damn_ him.

She will get away, she thinks, as the cold anesthetizes her body, freezes her into the darkness of unconsciousness. She'll get away, somehow.

And then she will _kill_ him.


End file.
